


tides receding ; waves crashing

by daredoll



Category: Descendants (Disney Movies)
Genre: Gen, Gil (Disney: Descendants)-centric, insecurity & poor parenting ?? you betcha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-24 22:47:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13821057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daredoll/pseuds/daredoll
Summary: your father never understood love ; you understand it too well.





	tides receding ; waves crashing

It’s your father that points it out. He always does, your insecurities, your doubt. You promised maman you would keep the sun in your hands, but Gaston has always done his best to snuff it. ( You think it’s his way of showing he cares. You tell yourself that he just wants to mold you into his image. You just wish that he didn’t have to break you apart into pieces so he could rebuild you. He’s a puzzle, and you love puzzles. Is it wrong that you can’t say that you love your father? )

“Tu est plus fort que le fils de Hook,” Père says one morning. _You are stronger than Hook’s son._ There’s nothing like subtlety in his tone. You stuff another egg between your teeth, a pit starts in your stomach that you know even five dozen of them wouldn’t fill.

“Mais il est plus intelligent que moi,” you mutter finally, only when blue eyes bore into you. _But he is smarter than me._ You feel his eyes roll in response more than actually see. But, you’re right. Harry is smarter than you. He’s a lot of things more than you, actually. Harsher. Wilder. Even the word suave comes to mind when you think of your best friend. More handsome, obviously. Muscles to spare having nothing on a jawline that could cut. So many reasons to hate him. So many reasons you could never.

“Les femmes ne savent pas ce qu'elles veulent tant que vous ne les avez pas forcées à le comprendre,” Gaston bites, like the simplest thing in the world. _Women don’t know what they want until you force them to understand._ Your neck grows hot, real anger, an emotion you have so little experience with, pricking at your skin, aching to be let out.

( _**UMA**_ , not knowing what she wanted ? Anyone forcing _**UMA**_ to do anything ? )

You ignore it, force it down, refuse to acknowledge how much you care, but there’s still a frown settled hard on your lips as you stand up from the table, pocketing two eggs from the bowl on the table as you sling a rucksack over your shoulder. Your attempt at nonchalance feels weak, just like everything your father sees in you.

“À plus tard, Père,” you offer, not looking at him, unable to look at him, as a lumbering gait carries heavy feet to the door. _See you later, Father._ He’s quiet, something dangerous and dark in it, just reeking with the reprimand, insult you’re waiting to follow.

“Je n'ai pas élevé un serviteur.” The words come just as you pass through the doorway, punctuated by the door as it slams shut behind you. _I did not raise a lackey._ They cut where they wouldn’t usually, slam the air from your lungs like one of your father’s signature cuffs to the head. Some part of you, the angry part you haven’t quite been able to stifle, the frustrated part of you that’s been rearing its ugly head more and more often, the insecure part of you that you never even knew existed, all call to remind him that “YOU DIDN’T FUCKING RAISE ME IN THE FIRST PLACE.”

You don’t. You keep going. You ruminate on what he says and allow yourself to steep in them. Is that what you are? Un serviteur? A lackey. Follower. Minion. Servile and unimportant? You were--- the three of you were friends. They didn’t call you the Sea Three for nothing, did they?

And oui, you know what they say behind your wide back, what they call you. Muscle. Tool. More brawn than brain. And maybe they were right, but wasn’t there more there, too? More that Uma and Harry saw, and maybe even appreciated? Didn’t they love ( You’re not afraid of the word. Your shoulders are strong and your skin thick, and you’d like to see anyone try to rip that word from your hands. ) you like you loved them? Wouldn’t they do anything for you, too?

But now you’re unsure, aren’t you? Have been for days, weeks. Because they--- what they feel for each other keeps showing. In moments and grazes of skin and locked eyes and hitched breaths. They---

Is it selfish that you don’t want to see how they feel? That you wish you could be as dull when it comes to their emotions as you are with every other subject? Because there’s a tightening in your chest each time you notice, and it’s hard to explain.

Your father acts as if you don’t want them to feel for each other, to be so close and growing closer, but he’s wrong. Above all, the only thing in this mess of emotions your mind is running through, you know, you know, you know that you want them to be happy, and you know that being together makes them happy. You aren’t jealous ( well, you are, actually. ) of the way Uma looks at Harry. You don’t hate Harry. You think, above all, that they are good for each other, perfect in fact. There’s no one that understands them the way that they understand each other.

Except there is. You do. Not in the same way, not in the same vein, because they see all their faults and their strengths and their scars and feel for each other despite them, because of them. They are the two that come together in war, in bloodshed, in powerplays, but you are who they come to when the world is soft and quiet and you can feel the shiver of doubt run up even their spines. You see them in their glory, in their darkest moments, when the subtle sunshine of the isle falls on their blessed heads ( blessed by you, adored by you, for you are devoted ) and takes your breath away. Do they know how you see them? Have you made it clear enough? Could you ever make it clear enough?

The thought hits you hard as you reach the alley to the chip shop, stops you in your tracks, has you ripping down the fabric of stalls on your way, each tent and awning and bolt no match for your father’s strength or his descended ire. ( You will come back later, with guilty smiles and a few saved pennies and an offer to help right it. You are too soft for this Isle. ) You leave destruction in your wake for once, not Harry, not Uma. Just you. And that’s what your thought strikes on.

Just you. That’s what it’s becoming. Them and you where it had always been we. Because you will always love them, you know this deep in your bold heart. No matter where they are or what heights they reach you will always follow, but there is a difference between a bicycle and a tricycle, isn’t there? A third wheel is unnecessary after the age of six, and is that where you are headed? Will they drop you, just like that? Leave you just another member of your crew where they had once let you so close? Or will it be slower, not a rapid descent but the slow dissipation of smoke into thin air? Will you one day look up and realize they are leagues ahead and you have no way of catching up?

But then you’re at the chip shoppe, and you’ve set your sword in the check. You don’t fix a smile on your face as always, you don’t try to hide what your father has reminded you. You wonder, above all, if they will notice. It’s alright if they don’t, you tell yourself. You don’t need their recognition. You don’t need them to care as much as you do. ( You just want them to. But this is the Isle and everyone wants something, wants more than they have. )

And yet, when you look up and spot Harry and Uma bickering behind the bar, and see the rest of the crew in various states of disarray it becomes--- harder to keep the melancholy on your face. Because you love these people, and you love the mayhem. They’re your family, your home. Bonnie tosses a lump of cod across the room at Jonas as you pass, narrowly missing your chin, and by the time you reach your friends there’s a high laugh on your lips and your cheeks begin to ache because of the smile catching.

And Uma motions you by her side, and Harry quits his ranting for just a moment to clear room for you between them. You fumble your way up and over the surface, making a much louder thump as your feet land on the worn floorboards as Harry ever would, and before you can even ask Cook’s slid a tray of your favorites down to you ( complete with the hard-boiled eggs that no one but you ever eats ). And maybe your best friends go back to their fighting ( flirting? ) without any other ado about your arrival, but you’re still between them. Uma props an arm on your shoulder and Harry leans against you, and there’s no real bite in their words. It’s just easy, the three of you, as you watch and listen and laugh at their jibes and pipe in with a ( possibly ? probably. ) dumb comment to either cut down or bolster up a point made. It’s easy and simple and maybe they do need you, at least now. You watch their eyes crinkle with mirth and smiles cut into their features and this, this is what you want forever, for eternity. You and them. Sea and shore. Because even when the tide recedes it always, always returns to the sand eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> me, using my own insecurities to explore my sweetest son? you betcha ! 
> 
> gil is the light of my life ?? i love him ?? thanks for coming to my tedtalk !


End file.
